Starch Wars: The Attire Strikes Back
by justinegraham
Summary: One good prank deserves another. Pre-ESB, nonsensical romp about laundry, tight situations and revenge.


**Starch Wars: The Attire Strikes Back**

By Justine Graham

 **A/N:** Warning: this is a groaner of a story, a totally tongue-in-cheek farce requested by JennyCBS in response to a Tumblr post about the jobs we would hold if we were assigned to the same Rebel Base as our OT heroes. I made a joke about shrinking Han's pants in the laundry, and it was on.

I'm sending this out to my dear friend and writing buddy ErinDarroch, who's had a helluva couple of weeks and needs a good old fashioned belly laugh...I surely hope this fits the bill. Erin, this one's for you!

Hugs and kisses to JennyCBS and Swimmergirl71 for the beta work!

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

One towel cinched low around his hips and blotting hair still damp from the shower with another, Han Solo stepped out from the steamy heat of the 'fresher into the cool recycled air of the cabin, and crossed over to his bunk. Dropping both towels in a heap on the deckplates, he selected a fresh shirt, trousers and skivvies from atop of the stack of clean clothes there, delivered by a service droid to the _Falcon_ earlier that morning. The ship's temperamental autovalet had been acting up for a few weeks now; with a grueling mission schedule leaving no time to exact repairs and, weary of hand-washing his clothes in the tiny 'fresher sink, Han had finally given up and relinquished his dirty laundry to be cycled along with the personnel uniforms in the base's main laundry facilities.

Grasping the shirt by the shoulders, he gave it a sharp _snap_ to shake it out, and then held it at arm's length and flipped it around from side to side to view the garment from all angles. Its ubiquitous stains had been completely erased, right down to the notoriously resistant residue of hydraulic fluid that had been smeared across its midsection. Han brought the garment up to his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled good, too; the deep, funky odour of engine lubricant that seemed to permeate his clothes was gone, replaced by a fresh, clean scent. Pleased, he threaded his arms through the sleeves and pulled it over his head, tugging down the hem to straighten it fully before running a hand over the fabric. It felt pittin-soft against his skin, a welcome change from the stiff, scratchy shirts that came out of his own ancient autovalet. Even his boxers felt soft and comfortable, as though they'd been fashioned from Dramassian silk. He had no idea what they were using in the laundry, but they had it spot on.

A guy could get used to this. He'd been working for the Rebels just shy of six months now, and though he'd never admit it to another living being, not even Chewie, he could almost see how easy it would be to get used to a _lot_ of what the Alliance had to offer. Sure, it was mundane at times, but his association with the Rebels provided steady work, reasonable pay, and hot meals when he grew weary of cooking—with the unexpected bonus of the friendly connections he'd developed with Luke, and some of the pilots and crew. Not to mention, the possibilities that existed—or, at least, he hoped existed—with a certain fiery Alderaani princess who had started to drive him crazy with frustrated longing alongside her inherent ability to drive him up the nearest wall.

Speaking of Leia Organa, it wouldn't be long before she was pacing outside the ship like she had taken to doing at the start of every day-cycle for months now, waiting for him to invite her in and pour her a cup of the rich, dark Umbaran kaffe he kept in abundant supply and brewed especially for her. Despite giving the princess the ship's access codes ages ago, she stalwartly refused to use them, preferring to wait until he lowered the ramp and greeted her for the day. He suspected she was wary of stumbling into an awkward morning-after situation; little did she know the only person who had invaded his thoughts in _that_ way for months was her.

Shaking off those errant thoughts, Han reached for his trousers, shook them out, and stepped into them. Hitching them up his hips, he couldn't help but notice they felt a bit snug. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but noticeable nonetheless. No bother, he thought; perhaps whatever fabric additives they used to freshen them tightened up the fibres as well, and they'd loosen up once he started moving around. He tucked in his shirt, reached for his holster and started thinking about some breakfast to go along with her Worship's kaffe.

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

 _ **Two weeks later**_

The moment the cabin hatch hissed open, the _Falcon's_ first mate found himself confronted by the sight of a very naked and decidedly peevish-looking captain. Neither state was unusual to Chewbacca; he was used to Cub being miffed about something or other on most days, and once you'd spaced together on a ship this size for as long as they had, the concept of modesty went straight out the airlock, along with things like privacy and personal space.

What _was_ strange was how Solo seemed to be bending himself into odd contortions, peering over his shoulder and under his arm in what looked like an attempt to get a glimpse of his own bare backside. Chewbacca leaned his furry bulk against the open hatch, folded his shaggy arms across his chest and barked a question.

 _[*Do I want to know what it is you are trying to accomplish?*]_

Han stopped his twisting about and directed a pointed look at his friend. "Hey, glad you're here. Tell me somethin' straight. Does my ass look any bigger to you?"

Chewie rolled his azure eyes. _[*I will lay down my life for you in a hundred different ways, Cub. I will throw myself on a nest of fire-wasps, or stand in the path of a disruptor bolt for you. But I will_ not _examine any part of your anatomy for the sake of vanity. The only way that you will convince me to look at your ass is if I am allowed to shoot you in it first.*]_

Han gave him a scowl and snagged his boxers from the bunk. "I'm not kidding around here, pal," he said as he tugged them on. "It's weird; the last couple of weeks, my pants have been gettin' tighter for no reason."

 _[*Perhaps you should go easy on the Trammiston chocolate-chooca nut cookies you keep sneaking out of the mess hall,*]_ Chewie chuckled.

"Very funny, fuzzball. You know I only keep those around for Leia." The Corellian shrugged. "Thought maybe I was goin' soft, working for these Rebs; but I guess it's just my imagination."

Chewie cocked his shaggy head and regarded his friend thoughtfully. _[*Now that you mention it,*]_ he growled _, [*I_ have _noticed. I thought perhaps you were wearing them that way on purpose.*]_

Han furrowed his brow, slanted his friend a questioning look and reached for his trousers from atop the bunk. "Why the hell would I do that on purpose?"

 _[*To appear more virile?*] Chewie offered. [*More sexually attractive to a potential mate? How would I know? I have not studied human courtship behaviour in detail.*]_

"No?" Han drawled. "Well, here's lesson one: human males are pretty preoccupied with that particular anatomical region, and not one of 'em will risk cuttin' off circulation on purpose." He tugged one leg into his trousers, and then glanced up at Chewie once more and fired him a hot glare. "And get it through your thick skull—I ain't courtin' _anybody."_

Chewie raised his eyes skyward once more. The hardheaded Corellian had been firmly in denial about his clear attraction to the little Princess for far too long, and the same was true of her. Whatever their reasons, the two stubborn humans seemed intent on blinding themselves to what everyone around them could plainly see. _[*If you say so, Cub.*]_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 _[*You know exactly what I mean. The sooner you both stop pretending that you do not, the happier we are all going to be.*]_

Before Han could open his mouth to protest, Chewie pushed his massive frame off the edge of the hatch and headed into the 'fresher. _[*Stop worrying about your ass,*]_ he admonished his friend. _[*Better still, pull your head out of it and get it in gear. We are due on the flight deck in ten minutes.*]_

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

 _ **Three weeks later**_

Han paused mid-stride and tugged at the inseam of his trousers, trying desperately to relieve the uncomfortable constriction he felt with every step. For weeks now his trademark Corellian Bloodstripes had been coming back from the laundry... _different_. At first he had passed it off as his imagination, or the unfortunate result of a programming error in the autovalets. But as time wore on he began to suspect that it was less a glitch, and more an act of subterfuge.

That theory had turned from vague suspicion to solid fact today, when his trousers had come back to him not just marginally tighter, but absurdly so. It was a struggle just to work them over his hips, and he'd been forced to lie down on his bunk to just to do up the zipper. He didn't have any options; it wasn't like he had packing crates full of spare trousers in reserve somewhere in the _Falcon's_ hold. He had two pairs to his name, and the other had been sent off to the laundry the night before following a rupture during repairs to the ship's fuel lines that had rendered them unwearable. He wasn't enlisted, so requisitioning a pair of uniform pants from the quartermaster was out of the question. Add to that the fact that he was already late for a mandatory early morning briefing for his next mission, and he was left with no choice but to don them anyway, hold his head up, and pretend as if nothing was amiss—a monumental task, when something as simple as walking presented a challenge.

He had already stopped several times along the corridor that led to the briefing rooms in a hopeless attempt to rearrange himself to create less friction, but there was no escaping his predicament. He only hoped he'd arrive late enough to be forced to stand for the briefing; the trousers were so dangerously snug across his ass now that he didn't dare attempt to sit down. Worse still, they were pulled so tight in the groin that he wouldn't be surprised to find that his voice had gone up an octave, and the fabric so taut that it defined...well, _everything_ a decent pair of trousers shouldn't, leaving precisely nothing underneath to the imagination.

Reaching the war room, Han took a steadying breath and then palmed the hatch. To his dismay, he found Leia at the front of the room, leading the briefing. She stood, gesturing with a one hand at a holo-projection of tactical schematics, and as he stepped inside she glanced in his direction and stopped speaking abruptly. Frozen mid-sentence, her widened gaze took in the state of his attire, and soon every being around the table had turned their complement of eyes in his direction. Some of them mercifully averted their gaze from below his belt rather quickly, while others seemed content to linger there longer as all around, looks of incredulity turned to amusement.

Han feigned nonchalance as his eyes flicked around the tightly-packed room, searching for a friendly port in this embarrassing storm—thankfully, he found Luke almost immediately, sitting at the back of the table flanked by a junior member of Delta Squadron on one side and Wedge Antilles on the other, with just enough space behind them for Han to squeeze himself in. Feeling the weight of a dozen sets of eyes upon him, Han pushed his way past the others and headed toward his friend, while Leia cleared her throat and resumed the briefing. His stomach plunged when the young pilot next to Luke stood and relinquished his chair as Han approached.

"Here, Solo," he offered jovially. "You can take my seat."

On Luke's other side, Han heard Wedge stifle a snort. He slanted a glance at the Rogue pilot, and the look on his face immediately confirmed his suspicions. The son of a bitch was _gloating_ , looking as openly smug as a Sabacc player who'd just laid down a perfect Idiot's Array.

"Nah, I'm good," Han said in his best unaffected tone. "I'll stand."

"Go ahead," Wedge said, flashing Han a greasy smile. "Age before beauty."

"I got both, so he can keep it," Han fired back.

"Are you two quite finished?" Leia interjected. "I'd like to continue _uninterrupted_." She leveled a stony gaze at Han. "Captain Solo...sit down, please."

"But—".

" _Now_ , Captain," she said firmly, in a tone that implied there was no room for argument.

Han shot Wedge a look of pure poison, set his jaw and drew a deep breath. He released it slowly as he sank into the chair, holding on to some sliver of hope that everything he knew of tensile strength and maximum shearing force was somehow wildly incorrect, and that he could escape the inevitable result of pushing those properties to the limit. But even a seasoned smuggler couldn't outrun the laws of physics; at the midway point, he felt the fabric give way at the centre seam with a resounding _rrrip_ that saw every eye in the crowded room turn back to him, and started a wave of snort-laughter rippling through the group.

Leia, however, did not share the amusement of the others; if she did, she certainly didn't show it. Her gaze swept over the group, silencing the laughter as quickly as it had started with the intense dismay in her expression and the annoyance that flashed in her deep brown eyes. As the group lapsed once more into awkward silence, Leia pursed her lips and gave a cursory nod that emphatically shut down any further attempts at jocularity before moving on with the briefing. Han barely heard a word; he spent the entirety of the meeting in a blue haze, alternating between seething in silent rage and wishing in vain for a cosmic singularity to open up beneath him so he could fall into it and disappear.

Predictably, when the meeting adjourned, Wedge beat a hasty retreat. Han remained seated until the rest of the group was filing for the door before falling into step behind the stragglers, intent on hunting down Rogue Squadron with fire in his eyes and malevolence in his heart.

"Captain Solo? Would you kindly stay back a moment?"

Han froze at Leia's overly upbeat tone. Glancing toward the front of the room, he found her regarding him with a tight-lipped smile, one he was certain was strictly for the benefit of the remaining personnel. He turned and affected a casual stance, as best he could considering he was damn near numb from the waist down and nursing a badly wounded pride. His assumptions proved correct; the moment the last of the group had filtered out, Leia's smile dissolved into an annoyed-looking scowl.

"Somethin' the matter, Princess?" he deadpanned.

He watched Leia's eyes flicker briefly southward from his face and back again, and then she straightened to her full height and tilted her chin defiantly. "Yes, there is. I've noticed your attire of late, Captain," she said. "I am well aware that not being a member of the Alliance limits our jurisdiction where you're concerned, but there are still standards of decency to be upheld. This is an active military unit, not some backwater cantina. It's bad enough that the women on this base practically salivate when you walk by; now you're strutting around in pants that are so tight that they show off all of your...your…." She trailed off, waving a hand in a wordless gesture below his belt. "It was only a matter of time before something like this happened, and it serves you right."

It was on the tip of his tongue to respond with a baiting comment— _Like what you see, Sweetheart?—_ just to wind her up, and watch the crimson flush bloom across her cheeks like it always did when she was flustered. But under the circumstances, he decided he'd best just shut his mouth and let it slide. "Listen, Leia. It's not my fault."

"Oh, it isn't?" She planted her hands on her hips and raised a curious eyebrow. "Did someone else dress you this morning, Captain?"

"What? No!" he said vehemently. "Look, I can explain...I think."

Leia tapped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm listening."

She listened calmly and intently while Han laid out the entire story—from his autovalet's unfortunate demise, to his decision to take advantage of the base's laundry facilities, and the slow shrinkage of his beloved Bloodstripes over the course of the last few weeks, culminating in the embarrassing position he found himself in today. At first, her cool exterior made it obvious that she was doubtful his conspiracy theory was credible. The more she heard, though, the more her demeanour softened.

"Hmmm," she mused at length, tapping her chin. "You might be right. The Rogues have been up to their old tricks of late, but they cover their tracks so well that proving they're behind this is going to be tough." She skewed her lips to the side as she considered their options. "We could try and approach it from another angle. There's a new crew member that we've put in charge of laundry operations; he just transferred in from the base at Carin VI a few weeks ago. Anyone wanting access to the laundry has to go through him. Perhaps we should go and speak to him, see what he knows."

"Good idea," Han confirmed. "So, let's go." He extended a hand, gesturing for Leia to take the lead.

"Have you forgotten something?" she asked in a teasing lilt. "You've a hole the size of a small moon in your pants, Flyboy. Perhaps I should follow you, instead." She gave him a brilliant smile that tripped his pulse. "To safeguard your dignity, of course."

"Of course," Han echoed with a wink. "Why else?"

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

Arriving at the main laundry, the hatch slid open to reveal a thin-faced, willowy Duros bent over a stack of requisitions behind the service desk. He glanced up at the newcomers with a smile at the sound of the hatch, and then Han saw his smile quickly fade as recognition washed over him, and he quickly scrambled to his feet.

"Private...Saal, isn't it?" Leia said warmly as she approached the desk. "Might Captain Solo and I have a word with you about a rather...distressing concern?"

Han watched the being's throat work as he swallowed hard, and saw the dark slits of his pupils widen perceptibly. "Wh-what can I help you with, your Highness?" he asked in the warbling voice typical for his species, made even more tremulous by his obvious uneasiness about being questioned by the last princess of Alderaan.

"Captain Solo here has reason to believe that the laundry facilities may have been intentionally tampered with. Have you seen or heard of any unusual activity since your arrival here?"

The Duros' deep russet eyes darted from Han to Leia and back again. Han made a show of casually dropping his hand to toy with the grip of his blaster, and watched as the colour leached from the being's blue-green face.

"They said you would think it was a funny joke," he blurted out. "That you would laugh...I swear!"

Han's eyes narrowed. "Well, I ain't laughin'." Although he was already sure what the Duros would say, he leaned in menacingly close and fixed the skittish being with a pointed stare. "Who's _they?"_

"Antilles," he said, lifting a shaky hand to rub the back of his neck. "And Janson, Klivian...those guys."

"I knew it," Han said, stabbing a finger at the Duros. "What did they promise you?"

The being's green tongue snaked out to run nervously over his lipless mouth. "A case of dried whip-smelt to look the other way while they altered the settings on the autovalet, plus six containers of coodler-roe to reprogram the tailoring droid," he admitted. "And they promised me I wouldn't get into any trouble." He cast an anxious glance from one to the other. " _Am_ I in trouble?"

"No," Leia assured him. "Somebody's in trouble, but it isn't you, Saal. Though I will advise you to proceed with caution when dealing with certain humans, in future."

"Yes, your Highness."

"In the meantime, please find something suitable for Captain Solo to wear."

The Duros nodded his understanding. "Right away, your Highness." He scurried through the open hatchway that opened up to the clean stores beyond, returning a moment later to hand Han a folded pair of uniform pants. They were the standard shade of Alliance khaki that he loathed, but he wasn't in a position to be picky. He jammed the trousers under his arm and then gave a nod and a sketchy salute to the frazzled being behind the desk.

"Thank you, Saal. I'll send in the official requisition shortly." Leia turned to Han and lifted her gaze to his with a conciliatory smile. "I'm sorry, Han. I'll make sure your personal belongings are replaced to your specifications. Free of charge, of course." She heaved a sigh. "And I guess I have a few more incident reports to write up."

Han laid a forestalling hand on her arm as she moved toward the hatch. "Wait a second, Princess."

Leia's eyes flicked down to his hand, and then back up to his. "I don't like the sound of that."

Han grinned, and then draped an arm across Leia's shoulders to steer her toward the hatch, dismissing the fleeting thought of just how _natural_ she felt tucked up under his arm. "What if just this once, you let me handle this my way? Off the record?"

"Because _your_ way tends to lead to a whole lot of extra paperwork for me."

"Leia, the Rogues and their pranks are gettin' outta hand. Somebody needs to stop them."

Leia paused just beyond the hatch and stepped away, cocking her head to regard him with curiosity. "You didn't say a word when they replaced the soap in the pilot's locker room with bioluminescent pigment, and all of Alpha squadron glowed orange for a week. You didn't speak up when then they spiked the kaffe in the mess hall dispensers with dried Melahnese peppers and sent three crewmen to the medbay. But _now_ they're getting out of hand?"

"Yeah, 'cause this time they've gone too far. This is personal; Wedge crossed a line. Nobody messes with a Corellian's Bloodstripes, Leia," he said firmly. "Nobody. Not even a fellow Corellian."

"Maybe if we crack down on them harder," Leia suggested. "Stronger reprimands, suspension of privileges.…"

Han scoffed. "C'mon, Leia. You said it yourself—half the time they cover their tracks so well, you can't pin anything on 'em in the first place. And when you do, the incident reports, the slap on the wrist they get...it ain't enough to deter 'em. What they need is a shot of their own medicine, and I'd like to be the one to jab it in their collective ass."

"You do have a point, I suppose" Leia said thoughtfully. "A little retribution in kind might just teach our resident pranksters a lesson that standard military discipline can't."

Han flashed a smile. "So you're in? I could use your help."

She appeared to consider a moment, and then met his gaze with a conspiratorial smile and a spark of playful anticipation in her eyes that ignited an odd fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. "As long as it doesn't inflict permanent injury or damage Alliance property, yes. I'm in. What do you have in mind?"

"Trust me, the only thing that's gonna get hurt are their egos. Here's what I need you to do."

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

 _ **Another three weeks later**_

Wedge heaved the last of the cargo crates onto the loaded repulsor cart and stepped back, swiping a hand across his brow and slanting a glance upwards to the top of the _Falcon's_ open landing ramp. "There. I think that's the last of them."

"Not quite. There's still a few drums left at the back of the main hold," Han replied, gripping the top frame of the hatch with both hands and peering down at the four Rogues who were helping to unload his latest shipment.

Hobbie glanced at the chrono strapped to his wrist, and then around at the others. "We're cutting it close, guys. Flight deck inspection's in just over thirty minutes. You heard what Dodonna said the last time; if even _one_ of us shows up late again, the entire Squadron is getting put on scut work for a week, on top of our regular shift schedule."

"Yeah, Han," Janson concurred. "He was _pissed_. Said he didn't care if we had to show up bare-assed, as long as we showed up on time."

"I know, I was there. C'mon, there's still plenty of time," Han assured. "There's only five of 'em. We'll each grab one, and then her Bossiness's supplies are somebody else's problem."

"I don't get why we're unloading cargo in the first place," Janson grumbled as he made his way back up the ramp, followed by Hobbie and Senesca.

"You know why. They're short on flight deck crew," Wedge explained, trailing along behind with the rest and ducking down to clear the hatch.

"Because _someone_ on the deck crew decided to be an idiot," Senesca returned.

"Yep," Han said with a shake of his head. "Turns out you _can't_ safely roast Hillindor fowl on an engine manifold."

"I imagine somebody regrets making that bet, now," Hobbie laughed.

"And High Command is none too pleased, either," Han pointed out. "The whole third shift's down with food poisoning."

As crazy as it sounded, it was true—and typical of some of the reckless stunts the guys who kept the flight deck running had pulled over the stretch. They couldn't have timed this one any better, though, and it meant that Han didn't have to go to lengths to concoct some elaborate ruse to get the Rogues to fill in for the regular crew today. He had waited patiently for this day to arrive and, for once, it appeared as though the fates were cooperating.

It had taken every ounce of his restraint to let the last few weeks go by and not say a word about what had happened, but that was all part of the scheme. In the days following the incident, the Rogues had tiptoed around him with trepidation, naturally expecting some form of retaliation to be meted out swiftly and without mercy. When it didn't come, Han's hope was that they thought his embarrassment over the incident had bridled his tongue, and he was content to let the whole thing pass into the annals of practical joke history.

Whistling a shapeless tune, Han led the small procession through the _Falcon's_ corridors. When they reached the cargo hold, he gestured toward the five reinforced plasteel drums there, tucked away in the rear corner of the cavernous space. While the Rogues' attention was diverted, Han reached into the pocket of his flight jacket, thumbed a button on his comm, and then covered the distance to the back of the hold and bent to grab hold of a drum and hoist it up onto his shoulder. "Just be careful with 'em; High Command paid a lot for this stuff. They're full of—".

Han mumbled a curse as his comm sounded an urgent tone. He set the drum down, the liquid inside sloshing audibly against the sides of the container. "Great. That's _her_ now. Probably wondering what's taking so long." He pulled a sour face. "I'd better take it; you know how she gets her skivvies in a twist if you don't answer her. You guys each grab one, and haul it down to the cart. I'll do a final sweep, and grab the last one on my way out."

Pulling his comm out of his pocket, Han made a show of sounding exasperated as he activated the device and held it up to his ear. "Solo here. Talk fast, your Worship, me and the guys are right in the middle of doing your royal bidding."

The smooth alto voice on the other end carried a hint of amusement. "You sent the signal right on schedule," Leia observed. "I take that to mean everything's still going as planned?"

Han rolled his eyes at the four men who were watching with interest. He scowled, circled the index finger of his opposite hand at his temple and then turned away, as much for the effect of appearing frustrated as to hide his satisfied grin. "Yeah, yeah. We're working on unloading it now. Hang on, I can't hear you...connection's patchy."

 _Go,_ he mouthed to the Rogues, and then took a few steps toward the hatch. "We're going as fast as we can, your Worship," he said into the comm as he exited the hold, moving out of earshot and visual range of the pilots. "Don't get excited."

Leia's answering giggle was musical. Hearing the princess laugh touched off that odd little fluttering sensation in his gut again, and a strange feeling of satisfaction. "Yeah. We're right on schedule," he confirmed. "I'll see you in the hangar."

Once he'd disconnected the comm signal, Han slipped the device back into his jacket pocket and withdrew the other one secreted there—a remote detonator, tuned to the frequency of the thermal charges he'd placed on each the plasteel drums. Hearing the grunts of effort from the men now exiting the hold, he grinned to himself as he activated the device, and then hesitated a few seconds longer before making for the ramp himself.

It wasn't long before confirmation of success reached his ears—the charges had silently superheated, quickly boring a small hole into the side of each container to allow its contents to seep out. "Kriff it, Wedge," he heard Janson say. "Mine's _leaking_."

"Yeah, it's all down your back," Hobbie confirmed. "Mine, too."

That was Han's cue. He peered down from the top of the ramp in time to see Hobbie and Janson examining the patches of green fluid that had soaked through the backs of each other's flight suits, while Senesca finished stacking his drum on the cart and straightened with a groan.

" _Leaking?"_ He echoed loudly in his best incredulous tone. Then, plastering a look of utter panic on his face, Han flew down the ramp so quickly that his booted feet barely made contact with the durasteel surface, and skidded to a halt in front of the men. "Oh, _shit_ ," he said, wide-eyed with mock alarm, and then raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay...guys, don't freak out."

A drum still hoisted up on his shoulder, Wedge slanted Han a look of confusion. "Freak out? Why? What's the—".

" _PUT IT DOWN!"_ Han shouted. "Do you have any idea what's in those things?"

The Rogues exchanged blank glances. "Uh, no," Hobbie piped up. "You walked away before you could tell us."

"It's Xenoboric acid, you idiots!" Han almost laughed out loud at the look of distress the Rogues passed between themselves. He clapped both hands to his face in silent shock to ramp up the tension, and stifle the laugh that threatened to give it all away.

"Xenoboric?" Senesca echoed in a tone laced with cold fear. He dropped his gaze, and then lifted one arm and then the other to gape in disbelief at the saturated arms of his flight suit. "You mean…?"

"You got about five minutes before that stuff oxidizes, and eats clear through to your bones." He shook his head. "If you're lucky, and the fumes don't kill you first."

Suddenly realizing he was still holding on to a hefty payload of liquid poison, Wedge dropped the drum like it had burst into flame. It hit the deck with a loud metallic _clank_ , and rolled about a half a metre away. His mouth hanging open, the Corellian pilot stared in mute horror at the puddle of liquid that began to spread out in a wide circle around the drum—nothing but water tinted a vibrant shade of fluorescent green, of course, but the power of suggestion was already working its dark magic. Wedge began to swipe his hands down the front of his flight suit, as if that would somehow help the situation. _"Fuck!_ I can feel it tingling, already."

"Get to the showers, _now_ , before the chemical reaction has a chance to start," Han ordered. "Sluice off in uniform first, then strip off and shower again. Make sure those suits go in with the biohazards. I'll clean up this mess before it burns holes all over the deck."

"Guys, what about the inspection?" Janson said. "We gotta be there in like...?" He cast a questioning glance at Hobbie.

"Twenty minutes," the pilot confirmed.

"Relax, I got you," Han assured. "I'll comm Leia and get her to send word down to the laundry, and get fresh uniforms and stuff delivered to the locker room. You'll make it on time. Trust me." He gave the men a serious nod to send them on their way.

Janson, Senesca and Hobbie sprinted for the showers. "Thanks, Han," Wedge said as turned on his heel. "I owe you one."

Han grinned at the Corellian's green-soaked, retreating back.

 _No, Wedge, I owed you. And we're about even the score._

-:¦:-:¦:-:¦:-

Han sat on the _Falcon's_ topmost hull with his booted feet dangling over the edge, nursing a perfectly warmed Lomin ale and watching the activity on the hangar deck below. All X-Wing squadrons were busily arranging themselves for inspection and, with only minutes to spare, four pilots from Rogue Squadron remained conspicuously absent.

"Did I miss anything?"

Han angled toward the sound of Leia's voice in time to see her hoist herself up to sit on the edge of the open hatch. "Nope," he said with a grin, and then turned back to the activity below. "Right on time. Show's about to start any second now."

Leia dropped down beside Han and nudged his shoulder with hers. "Got one of those for me?" she asked, indicating the bottle of ale in his hand with a jerk of her chin.

Han raised a curious eyebrow, and pulled a bottle out of the insulated carrier at his side and thumbed off the cap. "Since when do you drink Lomin ale?"

"Since I started consorting with mercenaries and scoundrels," she replied, taking the proffered bottle.

"You're not gonna like it, Sweetheart. It's pretty bitter. It's an acquired taste."

"I can handle it, Flyboy." She lifted her bottle in salute. "How do you give a toast in Corellian?"

Han pondered for a moment. "Under the circumstances, I think _al malacido revento_ will do," he said. "To sweet revenge."

Leia laughed, that bright, melodic sound that warmed him from the inside out. He clinked his bottle with hers, and she beamed him a brilliant smile that turned up the heat, making him wish he'd chosen ice-cold Fromish ale instead.

"To sweet revenge," she echoed.

Han kept his eyes on Leia as she took a sip of ale, grimaced, and then took another, larger swallow. He shook his head and hid his own smile behind a mouthful of ale. He had to give Leia credit; she approached even something as simple as a bottle of nasty ale with the tenacity of a temperamental Bantha. It was obvious she couldn't stand the stuff, but was going to drink it anyway just to prove a point.

"Oh, gods," she said, covering her mouth with her free hand.

"Give it back, Sweetheart," he said with a frown. "You don't have to—".

"Not the ale. _That_." She pointed toward the flight deck, at the same time as an audible gasp and ripples of laughter rose from the assembled pilots. "They're here."

Han turned his attention below, where Wedge, Hobbie, Janson and Senesca had just appeared, coming in from the direction of the locker room. It was immediately obvious that his plan had worked: the Rogues weren't wearing the sanctioned Alliance pilot's uniform.

In fact, the four pilots weren't wearing a damn thing at all.

Naked as they day they were born, the sheepish Rogues kept their eyes downcast as they padded in bare feet toward the other members of their squadron. Hair wet and tousled from the shower, they didn't have so much as a face towel, wet or otherwise, to cover up with—Han had quietly seen to that. They marched in single file, hands clasped strategically in front of private areas that they wished to remain that way, and then pushed through the ranks of their fellow pilots to fall into formation at the rear of the group.

All except for Wedge Antilles, of course.

As squadron leader, he took up his customary position, standing stiffly upright before the ranks with his head held high, and his hands linked in front, maintaining as much modesty as he could while standing stark naked in front of a crowd. Before he trained his gaze straight out front with polished military perfection, he flicked a glance up and across the hangar to where the _Falcon_ was berthed, and met his fellow Corellian's gaze with the look Han had hoped to see—the look that said both _I know_ and _fine, buddy, you win,_ all at the same time.

" _Captain Antilles!"_

Dodonna's angry voice echoed across the hangar, cutting through the laughter and shouts of ribald amusement coming from the assembled pilots. He veered across the deck toward the Rogues, his booted footfalls sounding very loud in the hush that descended over the crowd, and came to to a halt in front of Wedge with his clenched fists planted on his hips.

"Sir," Wedge addressed the grey-haired officer in a booming voice. "Permission _not_ to salute a superior officer, General. Sir."

Snorts of laughter rose up all around, and were silenced once more by the stony glare leveled by Dodonna at the assembly.

Dodonna tilted his chin at an imperious angle. "What is the meaning of this, Captain?"

"Rogue Squadron reporting for inspection, sir. All present and accounted for on time, sir."

Dodonna adopted a wide-legged stance and clasped his hands behind his back. "Where are your uniforms, Captain?"

"Mix up with the laundry, sir," Wedge replied. "Sent us uniforms made for Black Squadron, sir. No time to correct the issue, sir."

Dodonna turned his head to where Black Squadron stood in formation, awaiting their turn at inspection. The tallest of the all-Radnoran team stood barely four feet tall, and the humanoid species' thin, spindly appendages bore a greater resemblance to arboreal saplings than limbs. It was doubtful any of the human pilots could have gotten a leg into the Radnoran's uniforms, let alone the rest of their tall, lanky frames.

Even from this distance, Han could see a muscle in Dodonna's cheek twitch. His frustration was evident—his face was flushed, and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides as he spoke. "And so you decided to come to inspection….?"

"Bare-assed, but on time, sir." Wedge supplied evenly, without missing a beat. "Following your orders to the letter, _sir_."

The general drew back in surprise. He took a step to his rear, absently stroking his wiry grey beard while keeping his eyes trained on Wedge's face. The crowd held their breath, waiting for him to speak, yell, curse, anything to break the charged silence. At length, he surprised everyone by simply nodding at Wedge, and then dismissed the entire squadron without further comment, and moved on down the line.

Leia turned to Han with an expression of amazement. "I had my doubts, Flyboy," she said. "It was a huge gamble, but it worked." She raised her bottle of ale to her lips, and then changed her mind and set it down on the hull beside her.

"You gonna finish that?" he asked, with a nod toward the bottle.

"No," Leia conceded. "That's _two_ for you today, Flyboy." She pushed the barely-touched bottle in his direction. "I still don't know how _you_ knew this scheme would work."

"Because I know Dodonna," Han said, draining the last of his ale. "Or at least, I know guys _like_ him. He's a jerk, but he's a consummate military man just the same. He doesn't make idle threats; he's all about honour and integrity and crap. So it didn't matter to him that this was a blatant violation of Alliance protocols; there's no way he could override his own training and reprimand those guys on the grounds of following orders _he_ gave, in front of witnesses and everything." He cracked a lopsided smile. "So Wedge and the boys get taught a lesson they won't soon forget, and still manage to save face with the brass." He nudged her shoulder with his. "That's what you military strategists call a win-win, Sweetheart."

"Said by a man with the all makings of a true military strategist." Leia shook her head. "You're sure I can't convince you to enlist? The Alliance needs people with your skillset."

"Don't start," Han warned, and then rose to his feet and extended a hand to Leia to do the same. "Come on. What do you say we take Wedge and the gang some proper uniforms, round up Luke, and bring 'em all back here for dinner? Chewie's making a smoked nerf and kellsh-root pie that'll blow your mind."

Leia slanted him a playful glance. "That depends. Got any more of those Trammiston chocolate cookies?"

"Got somethin' better," he grinned. "Authentic Corellian Ryshcate. You were asking about it, so I picked up the ingredients to make some on my last run. So good you'll think you've died and gone to Kor Vella."

Leia pondered for a moment, and then reached up and took his hand. "Dinner _and_ dessert? Now that is what I call a win-win."

 **The End**


End file.
